A Night at the Forsaken Inn
by Christophe Ryber
Summary: The Forsaken Inn is a haven for the drunks and brigands that prowl the Lone Lands. So, why has Galadriel shown up at the door in the middle of a storm, half-dead, carrying Gandalf's staff? - Takes place 5 years after the Battle of the Five Armies -
1. Chapter 1

Chapter One

The door banged open. No one was expecting this, not on such a stormy night with a halo of lightning crowning Weathertop and the rain pounding like a bad hangover on the leaky roof of the Forsaken Inn. So, the ragged collection of farmers, trappers and highwaymen could be excused their curious looks toward the tall woman leaning against the doorjamb.

A gust of cold, wet wind whipped the edges of her drenched white dress and tore at the strands of long, golden hair that spilled out from behind her elegantly tapered ears. Several of the Men in the inn let their gazes linger on the statuesque stranger's high, pale cheekbones, their eyes narrowing as they traced the slender form under the rain-soaked gossamer gown.

But, there were also those frosty blue killer's eyes and the long fingers that gripped a gnarled staff in that practiced way that the men recognized. Maybe it was these that warned them against acting on the ale-soaked thoughts racing through their muddled brains. Then again, maybe it was the red stains on the hem of her gown and the fresh blood trickling down between the toes of her bare, muddy feet.

"Goodness me!"

The beer maid Hilla rushed forward, wiping her hands on her dishrag before running her bony fingers through her greasy red hair. "M'Lady, you're drenched to the bone! Out on a night like this, and with them goblins makin' merry up on Weathertop in the storm."

"I need to get to Bree."

The voice was an alto, melodic. Lilting, but with the same softness that a velvet glove has when stretched over an iron-mailed gauntlet. Nonetheless, the Lady let Hilla take her hand. Hilla shooed away a couple of wide-eyed farmhands away from the fireplace with her dishrag. They sprang up out of their rough-hewn oaken seats, and Hilla dragged the Lady closer to the sputtering fire. Hilla pulled up one of the empty chairs. The Lady collapsed into it, ignoring the red sparks flying about as Hilla stoked up the fire.

"Ain't no goin' to Bree tonight, m'Lady. Won't be nothin' but goblins and bandits 'twixt the Forsaken Inn and the Prancing Pony till the storm stops and the sun shines."

The Lady leaned her head against the twisted staff with its cracked quartz crystal. The frosty blue eyes closed as the pale lips mouthed a word in the Faery speech.

" _Mithrandir_ -"

Hilla tossed the poker onto the hearth and knelt beside her. "Can I get you somethin', Lady - ?"

"Galadriel. I remain just Galadriel."


	2. Chapter 2

The murmurs and hushed speculations over the strange Lady barely had time to make their rounds of the common room before Hilla returned from the kitchen and placed a hot cup of tea into Galadriel's trembling hands. Galadriel wrapped her fingers around the simple brown earthenware and bowed her head over the rising steam.

"Praise be to Elbereth for good, kind folk." Galadriel sipped delicately, then glanced up at Hilla.

"My people do not carry coin – "

Hilla patted Galadriel's arm. "Don't you worry, love."

"What you mean?" The ale-soaked floorboards creaked under the heavy leather boots of the innkeeper as he stomped around the end of the bar. His hard green eyes matched the edge in his voice. "This ain't no hospice, Hilla."

Hilla glared right back at the graying man in his dirty apron. "Mind your tongue, Anlaf. She's one of the Fairy Folk. You want your entire season's stock of Old Winyard turned sour?"

"What?" The menace in Anlaf's words dripped heavier than the dirty washrag twisting in his callused fingers. "I'll have no pointy eared sprite ruinin' my business." The boots clomped closer.

Galadriel thrust the tea cup into Hilla's hands and rose to take a limping step toward Anlaf. Finding himself having to look up at the taller woman, the barkeep pulled up short. The bloodied fingers gripping the gnarled staff for support might have been trembling, but the blue eyes that held the barkeep's gaze were clear and steady. The white crystal caged in the top branches of the staff glowed a soft white, driving away the shadows from the corners of the common room.

"You have nothing to fear from me, Inn Master." Galadriel's alto resonated in the heavy, smoky air. "The Eldar bless far more often than they curse."

The drunken buzzing in the common room died down as Anlaf squirmed under Galadriel's gaze for a long moment. Finally, cheeks reddening, Anlaf looked away.

"Back to work, Hilla," he grumbled as he stomped back to the bar. "You got ale runnin' low at all your tables."

Cries of "Hear, hear!" and "Keep it comin', Hilla!" rose above the crowd as the normal background talk resumed. Somewhere, a fiddle started squeaking, and hands started clapping in rhythm. Galadriel turned toward Hilla, the phantasmal light from the staff's crystal flickering, and then fading altogether.

"My people earn their keep. I can help you in your kitchen in exchange for the night's lodging."

Hilla nodded. "If you wish, Lady. But truth be told, you barely look like you can stand. At least finish your tea."

Galadriel collapsed back into the chair by the fire and rested her head on the staff. Hilla knelt down beside her with the tea. After casting a quick glance toward the bar, she leaned in close and whispered into Galadriel's pointed ear.

"What happened, m'Lady? Where'd you come from?"

Galadriel's hands were still shaking as she took the tea cup.

"Minas Eriol."

Hilla walked over to the window and threw open a shutter. There were drunken shouts of complaint as a gust of wind drove cold drops of rain into the common room. A bolt of lightning lit up the towering ruins on the mountain ridge. Hilla looked back at Galadriel in disbelief.

"That place? But it's crawling with goblins."

Galadriel took a sip from the cracked tea cup and stared blankly into the fire.

"Not anymore."


	3. Chapter 3

The Nazgul's metal boot kicked the visored helmet away from the face of the fallen Goblin. Blackened lips were drawn back from yellowed canines in an agonized death grimace. Lifeless, reddened eyes, wide with terror, stared up into the Nazgul's hollow hood. A claw-like hand stretched toward the stars glistening behind the ragged, wind-torn holes in the storm clouds, but no help from Varda would come for one such as him.

The Nazgul's armored boot turned the head to the left, and his black hood nodded at the deep notch in the Goblin's pointed ear. Yes, it was Hazbok, the Lieutenant of Minas Eriol.

 _Former lieutenant,_ the Nazgul thought wryly.

Hazbok was as dead as the rest of the Goblin soldiers in the ruins of the tower. The Goblin chieftain Gurzstaz would not be pleased. But then, neither would the Nazgul's Master.

After the Dwarves from the Blue Mountains had decided to meddle with affairs in the East, the Eye had turned its gaze toward the ancient East-West Road. The long, thin ribbon of cobblestone that wound its way through the inhospitable Lone Lands was the only reliable passage from Eriador to the lands beyond the Misty Mountains. The ruins that the Nazgul now stood in were all that was left of an ancient city that had been built atop a ridge overlooking the Road to guard the flow of travel and trade.

Guard it, or cut it off.

The Nazgul would have preferred Orcs to regarrison Minas Eriol, but his Master's mightier warriors were still scattered after the disaster at Erebor. So, the Nazgul had reluctantly ridden into the stink of the nearby Midgewater Marshes and shown himself to Gurzstaz, chieftain of the Goblins there, demanding tribute in the name of his Master.

News of the fall of Dol Guldur had spread through the Wild, and Gurzstaz was not as deferential as the Nazgul was accustomed to. Still, even with a Master defeated and struggling to regain form in the East, a Ringwraith is not something to be trifled with. In the end the Goblin Chief had grudgingly handed over one hundred of his best warriors.

And now they were all dead.

The Nazgul looked out over the ruined city with its crumbling halls and moss-covered battlements. Centuries ago, when he had flesh and a name that he could no longer remember, he had walked under its marbled arches, sat by its sparkling fountains, and dwelt in this very tower. During the Second Age, in the days when Tar-Atanamir the Great had sat on the throne of Numenor, the Nazgul had been a scholar, a great one.

Even though just a minor noble of one of the Free Houses of Eriador, the reputation of the Lore-master of Minas Eriol was second only to that of Elrond of Rivendell for ancient wisdom and lost knowledge, and even the long-lived Numenoreans from across the sea came to his tower seeking counsel.

And, in exchange for his counsel they would bring him gifts, artifacts of the most rare and wondrous kinds plundered from the old Elven kingdoms that now lay beneath the waves of the Western Sea – ancient scrolls from the libraries of Doriath, dusty tomes from the hidden kingdom of Gondolin, enchanted parchments from Nargothrond written in the hand of Elves who had seen the Two Trees of Valinor.

But, it was an emissary from Tar-Atanamir himself that had given the Lore-master one particularly wondrous scroll – the scroll that would prove to be his downfall.

"The King seeks an elixir." The Numenorean spoke in hushed, almost shameful tones as he fidgeted with the folds of his deep blue cloak. "His beard grows grayer with the seasons, and the Elf-Friends among the Great Houses of Numenor call for him to lay down his life as his predecessors have done." The emissary's noble features darkened. "But, why should the children of Elros be forever bound by his impetuous decision to forsake immortality?"

The Lore-master sat down in the high-backed oaken chair behind his desk and steepled his fingers. "You ask for a miracle. I am a scholar, not a sorceror."

"Tar-Atanamir would pay handsomely for what he seeks."

"Even if such a thing were possible, the price of even a few extra years of life would be high indeed."

The King's emissary stepped forward and placed on the desk before the Lore-master a scroll of snow-white parchment tied with a silver cord. The Lore-master raised a skeptical eyebrow, then unrolled the scroll. The Lore-master's eyes widened as they danced over the High Elvish written in ink of liquid silver.

The Numenorean's stilted, Western accent echoed off the stone walls of the tower as the Lore-master's quivering fingers traced the elegant letters.

"Deep in the vaults of Armenelos are many strange heirlooms. This scroll was a gift from the Dwarves of Nogrod. Legend has it that the scroll was taken by Dwarven soldiers from Thingol's private chambers during the sack of Menegroth." The Numenorean strode casually around the desk and leaned down to whisper in the Lore-master's ear. "It is said to be written in the Queen of Doriath's own hand."

"Melian –"

The Lore-master tore his burning eyes away from the glittering runes and looked up at the emissary. "The most powerful sorceress to have ever walked in Middle-Earth. To uncover even the simplest of her spells…"

The Numenorean nodded. "Indeed." He clapped a mailed gauntlet on the Lore-master's slender shoulder. "Let us be plain, my friend. Your reputation is legendary – too legendary. Your name has circulated throughout Eriador for longer than any Man not of Numenorean descent could possibly have lived." The armored hand tightened on the Lore-master's shoulder. "The King merely wishes to share in your good fortune."

The Lore-master's gaze was drawn back to the scroll. The silver letters seemed to flow and weave into each other. "It's in some kind of cipher, or perhaps an enchantment lays over it. You ask for a miracle in exchange for a riddle."

The Numenorean paced back around to the other side of the desk. A knowing smile played underneath his carefully trimmed black beard as he turned around the room, waving at the shelves of musty parchments, framed maps of ancient kingdoms that no one living remembered, work tables loaded with opened books with copious notes inked into the margins.

"Riddles are what you live for." He gestured to the scroll with open hands. "I give you the greatest riddle in Middle-Earth."

The Lore-master stared at the sparkling silver letters. Yes, an elegant, feminine hand had scribed these runes. An Immortal hand. A powerful hand. If it were truly _her_ hand –

He rose abruptly and strode over to a gleaming oak cabinet. Throwing open the doors, he grabbed a spherical bottle, corked and sealed with wax. The mint-green liquid inside sloshed against the glass as the Lore-master held it up in the torchlight.

"Outside of the Undying Lands, the _salabandcuil_ flower grew only in the royal gardens of Doriath, and was said to be cultivated from the blooms that had graced Queen Melian's hair when she was found dancing under the stars by King Thingol himself. How three plants came to be in the Old Forest along the Withywindle I cannot tell. I brewed three elixirs. Two, I have taken."

He took a deep breath, then thrust the bottle into the hands of the Numenorean. "When Tar-Atanamir's beard starts to grow gray again, he needn't bother to look for me."

The Numenorean scrutinized the bottle, then tucked it safely away into a pouch on his swordbelt. His eyes narrowed as he studied the Lore-master.

"I told the King that no man would make such a trade, but he was sure of it. Now that it is done, tell me – why?"

The Lore-master lifted the glittering scroll with loving fingers. A strange light gleamed in his eyes.

"You Numenoreans are rich in years – years that have made you gods among the rest of us lesser Men. Yet, all you crave is more life." The Lore-master nodded at the royal insignia of the White Tree emblazoned on the Numenorean's tunic. "Your King understands the nature of Men well. I have knowledge of ancient things rivalling that of the Eldar, yet all I crave is to uncover more secrets."

The Lore-master's fingers traced the silver swirls on the scroll. "To read her words, to have her thoughts spring to life in my mind, whatever they may be – yes, it will be worth the price."

He spread the scroll out on the desk before him. "But the secrecy of Melian is legendary, and I am about to enter a contest of wits with the loveliest and most cunning Lady who has ever walked Middle-Earth." He smiled sadly at the puzzled-looking Numenorean. "I can only pray that the years I have remaining are enough."


	4. Chapter 4

The Lore-master worked night and day, opened every book he owned, spurned every visitor, let his body waste away as he poured his soul into uncovering the Queen's cipher. The obsession took its toll. He kept working though, frantically, as the years passed and his time ran out, until one night, something twinged in his head and he collapsed onto the desk, the quill dropping from his numb fingers.

He lay there with his head on a sheaf of parchments, the white scroll of Melian within eyesight but just out of reach of the one hand that still moved. The left side of his mouth twitched as a slurred prayer escaped his numb lips.

"O Melian, I would give my last breath to know your secrets."

The creaking of floorboards told the Lore-master that someone had entered the room. He followed with widening eyes as a figure clad in rich sable stepped out of the shadows cast by the candle on his desk.

The intruder in his study looked like an impossibly tall, powerfully built Noldorin Elf, mightier than even Gil-galad, with midnight black hair and a hard, merciless face. But, the Lore-master knew far too much concerning the fall of Eregion to be deceived by such appearances, and his palsied body shook uncontrollably as the intruder approached.

The heavy footfalls stopped on the other side of the desk. Out of a face half obscured by shadows, a piercing Eye with a thin, cat-like pupil held the Lore-master transfixed in its burning gaze.

"You know who I am." The words were deep and full of power, spoken in a dialect that only those few Elves that had seen the Undying Lands ever used.

The Lore-master nodded slowly, his palsied face oblivious to the scratching of the parchments under his cheek. "Are you here to kill me?" he lisped. "It seems the task is nearly done."

A sharp, cruel laugh echoed off the stone walls of the Lore-master's library. A black gloved hand extended, bearing in its palm a ring of silver inset with diamonds. The Lore-master looked on the glowing Elvish inscription with burning recognition.

"Nine for mortal Men…" The Lore-master forced the question past his rapidly numbing lips. "Why offer it to me?"

The gloved fingers held the ring up to the baleful Eye, then enclosed it in their iron grip. Heavy footfalls followed the shadowy figure over to a yellowed map of Eriador hanging on the wall.

"The Men of the West hunger for land. My lands. Your lands."

The Lore-master could still nod, and he did. There was much talk among the Free Houses of Eriador about the growing Numenorean settlements and the blind eye that Gil-Galad in Lindon turned toward them.

The black-gloved hand set the ring on the map so that it encircled Minas Eriol. From the edges of the ring, the parchment blackened in a wide circle, eclipsing Numenorean settlements and the holds of rival Houses until the darkness covered a great swath of land between the Baranduin and the Hoarwell that suddenly seemed to the Lore-master to be the rightful domain of his beloved city.

The Shadow fell once more over the desk, and the black-gloved hand set the ring down next to the Lore-master's fallen quill. Once out of the clutches of the black fingers, the glowing inscription on the ring began to fade.

"You hide in this tower and read books while the High King permits the banner of the White Tree to be raised over more and more of your lands. The Elves have betrayed the Men of Middle-Earth to Numenor."

The Lore-master grunted as the room began to fade. The end was near now. He forced his lips to work.

"Better Numenor than Mordor -"

The Eye burned in the shadowed face. The Hand stretched out, and the Lore-master steeled himself for the blow that would end his life. But, the grasping fingers closed instead over the white scroll and held it up. The Eye studied it for a moment, the scroll hovering dangerously close to the flickering candle. The Lore-master took a deep, ragged breath as the flame began to leave a black spot on the back of the immaculate parchment. Then, the black hand tossed the scroll back onto the desk.

"You have not yet seen two centuries, but you have become the greatest scholar that has ever arisen among mortal Men. Imagine what you could achieve over the course of an Age."

From where he lay, the Lore-master gazed on Melian's scroll, the enigmatic silver runes glistening in the candlelight. He cared naught for the politics of the Great Houses of Men, what banner flew over what crumbling pile of rock. But, to die without having learned her secret; it was unthinkable. He needed the one thing he had run out of – time.

The Lore-Master's quivering fingers stretched out past the quill and closed around the ring…

A low rumble rolled out of the clouds overhead, threatening another deluge, and the Nazgul shook off his ruminations. His mailed glove absently patted the folds of his cloak as he kicked Hazbok aside and looked out over the parapet of his old tower. Storm clouds still broiled in the north.

Then, far off across the blasted heath, in the shadows of the hill of Amon Sul, a light winked on. The Nazgul focused his spectral senses – strains of music and the smell of cooked meat. The sound of Men's voices. And something else. Something – familiar.

The Nazgul looked down. From here, the bodies of the Goblins of Minas Eriol made an interesting pattern, radiating out from Hazbok's body like spokes on a pinwheel, as if a great force had leveled the entire garrison all at once. The bodies were blackened and burned, and the ground scorched.

The Nazgul looked out again at the point of light. It winked out. But, the Nazgul had seen enough. He knew now where to find the destroyer of the garrison at Minas Eriol, and what awaited him out in the Lone Lands. The Elf Witch had come, just as his Master had foretold. The time had come to carry out his Master's command.

The hood bowed, and the mailed gauntlet retrieved a white scroll from within the folds of his midnight cloak. The empty hood stared hard and long at the glittering silver runes.

And also, perhaps, time for something else first.


	5. Chapter 5

The night was half over and the storm lulled when the last of the patrons of the Forsaken Inn made a rather undignified exit, with Anlaf's boot planted firmly on his backside as he flew out the front door onto the rain-splattered stones of the East-West Road. Before heading to his own room at the back of the Inn, Anlaf called out toward the kitchen (he hadn't stuck more than a head in there all night) that Hilla could put the "sprite" in the empty room next to hers on the upper floor.

As Hilla and Galadriel reached the top stair, the Lady stumbled, the twisted wooden staff clattering on the steps as Galadriel clutched at Hilla. The bar maid caught Galadriel easily, amazed at how light the tall Elf was in her arms. She could have carried her the rest of the way up the stairs, if need be.

"See now, Lady. I knew you was pushin' yourself too hard." Hilla wrapped an arm around Galadriel's waist and, stooping for a moment to scoop up the staff, guided her exhausted charge into the guest room. Galadriel made it to the simple straw bed before collapsing again. Hilla set the staff beside Galadriel and lifted her feet onto the bed.

Long fingers brushed Hilla's arm. "Thank you, Hilla."

Hilla patted Galadriel's hand and began to putter about the room, pulling out a large copper washtub from the corner as she rambled in a soothing voice.

"Oh, I'm not done with you yet, m'Lady. We'll get the mud and blood off you. Can't imagine a Lady like you could sleep in that state. And I'll get that gown of yours washed – that's why I left that cauldron goin' in the kitchen - it's positively dreadful, for all the Fairy gossamer that went into its spinnin'."

Galadriel lay back on the rough, woolen blankets, too tired to argue. She closed her eyes. The door banged and water splashed every so often as Hilla brought up pitcher after pitcher from the kitchen.

After the last bit of steaming water went into the tub Hilla paused, the empty pitcher dangling in her hand as she frowned.

"Nope, it's gone again. That recipe we used for makin' those cakes. Can't remember it for the life of me, no matter how many times you told me in the kitchen. How the men loved 'em! Anlaf never had such a full coffer."

Galadriel smiled through closed eyes. "It's not you, Hilla," she whispered drowsily. "I learned that recipe from the Queen of Doriath as her lady-in-waiting. But, Melian was famously jealous of her secrets. No matter who I try to teach, when I pass from this world the recipe for _glibas,_ along with many of her other enchantments, will go with me."

Hilla set the pitcher next to the wash basin on the dry sink. She turned to rouse Galadriel, but paused, a knowing smile spreading over her lips at the way Galadriel lay, arms wrapped around the staff, white forehead touching the softly glowing crystal.

"Who is he, m'Lady?"

The blue eyes snapped open. Hilla laughed.

"Come now, m'Lady. I know you ain't used to havin' that fancy walkin' stick. Or else you'd a leaned on it 'stead of me when you took your spill back there on the stairs."

Galadriel sat up and rested her head in her hands. "I'm old, Hilla. I don't have any stories that wouldn't take a long time to tell."

Hilla laughed gently. "It _is_ a man, then." She touched Galadriel's shoulder. "Let's get you into the tub, m'Lady."

Hilla scrubbed the soiled gown in a small cauldron while Galadriel soaked in the washtub, the golden strands of her hair spreading out over the steaming water like sunlight over a lake. She rubbed the warm water over her shoulders and tried to ignore the distant, rolling booms coming through the open shutter, brought on a hissing north breeze that, despite the hot bath, left bumps across her white skin.

Hilla wiped her hands on her apron and peered out the window.

"Looks like more rain." She reached out to close the shutter, but stopped as Galadriel sat up, looking like a trapped rabbit.

"Please. I'm not used to spending the night enclosed by walls."

Hilla frowned, but nodded. "Just so as you don't catch your death of cold. Though I suppose you'd know better. Can't say as I've ever seen one o' the Fairy Folk with a sniffle."

Galadriel rested her head on the back of the copper washtub and stared up at the rafters on the low ceiling. "No. Grief has ever been the Eldar's chief plague." She glanced over at the bar maid. "You're a good woman Hilla. Do they treat you well here?"

Hilla shrugged. She gently wrung out Galadriel's gown and laid it out on top of the bureau. Callused hands, reddened from years of scrubbing and cooking, fussed with the flowing sleeves.

"You mean Anlaf? He's a little rough around the edges, but he's a solid, earthy man." Hilla snorted. "Leastaways he ain't no drunkard or ruffian like most of that lot downstairs." She shot a glance over her shoulder at Galadriel. "And what of your man, Lady? The one whose staff you been cradlin' like a newborn babe."

Galadriel glanced at the twisted oak branch laying on the straw bed. Its quartz crystal pointed at Galadriel like an accusing finger. She folded her arms and sank even deeper into the steaming water, her eyes fixed on her white knees.

"He belongs to no one." Her pale lips curled up at the corners. "Or, to everyone, as he said once." Then, the smile faded as Galadriel held up her left hand and watched the steam rise off her fingers like some spell. "And I have other obligations."

For a brief moment, Hilla thought she saw something like a star sparkle on Galadriel's ring finger. Then, a flash of lightning seared the shadows from the corners of the room. A loud boom shook the rafters. Hilla squealed.

"Dear me! Jumped out of my skin, I did!" The shutters banged in the freshening wind. Hilla scurried over to the window. Cold raindrops gathered on her rosy cheeks as she peered out into the night.

"Now, that's queer." She squinted. Then, she gasped, a scream building in the back of her throat.

Galadriel sat up, her hands clutching the sides of the washtub. Hilla backed away from the window and turned to run from the room, but froze in midstep as Galadriel's hand stretched out toward her.

"Keep looking, Hilla."

Hilla didn't turn so much as she was turned back to the window. Her whole body shook as she peered out into the storm. Her bottom lip quivered as she forced her dry tongue to work.

"Do - do you see him, m'Lady?"

Galadriel nodded and lowered her hand. Hilla slammed the shutters closed without waiting to ask. She sank down to the floor below the window and looked at Galadriel with a horrible question burning in her eyes.

Galadriel nodded. "Yes. He's coming for me."

Hilla shook off the terror and scrambled to her feet. She grabbed the still damp gown from the bureau and tossed it toward Galadriel as she rose from the water. The face that emerged from the top of the dress was changed – older, colder. There was a hard edge to the resonant voice as it assumed a tone of command.

"Go now. You must rouse your man and bar the door."

Hilla nodded and scurried from the room, giving the tub a wide berth. As the door slammed shut, Galadriel picked up the staff in her wet, trembling fingers.

" _Mithrandir –_ "

Galadriel rested her head on the staff again, but this time, the stone did not glimmer.


	6. Chapter 6

"Come with me, my Lady –"

Elrond might have dismissed Mithrandir's words as a moment of weakness, the result of days of torment under the unblinking, merciless gaze of the Eye. But, there could be no excuse for the turmoil in Galadriel's own face as she tore her hand out of the delirious Wizard's grasp. As they placed Gandalf's broken body on Radagast's rabbit sled, the sidelong look that Elrond had given Galadriel told her what she feared. He knew.

The Lady of Lothlorien, the mother of Elrond's beloved and much lamented Celebrian, had a dirty secret.

But then, there had been no time for anything but the Nine, and - the Eye. That had taken every shred of strength Galadriel had left. When she had finally collapsed, the ring Nenya all but spent, Elrond had scooped her up without a word and spirited her away to Lothlorien.

And to Celeborn.

From the seclusion of her ivy-covered bower atop Caras Galadhon, Galadriel's heart had raced as she listened to the curt summary of the battle that Elrond gave her husband. What he reported - and what he didn't.

Was that the slightest edge to Celeborn's voice as he inquired about Mithrandir's condition? Suddenly, Celeborn's reason for his refusal of a seat on the White Council – "I am no Wizard" – seemed to carry a double edge.

Still, Celeborn remained in the months that followed the perfect caretaker, always at her side whenever she awoke from the Black Sickness that lingered from her encounter with the Eye. The relief on Celeborn's face as Galadriel regained her strength was genuine, and the hand that held hers was tender and gentle.

But, when she spoke nothing of the battle, no question came forth.

Then, almost five years to the day that Galadriel had returned to Lothlorien, a letter came from Rivendell. The White Council was to convene on the first day of autumn. Galadriel glanced the briefest of glances toward Celeborn as the messenger read the scroll, but the King of the Golden Wood sat like a rock on his throne, his gray eyes fixed on – nothing.

When Galadriel had answered the summons, she had breathed the shallowest of breaths as the Master of Rivendell had risen to greet her. As always, his smile was as warm as summer. Relieved, Galadriel smiled in return.

But, as Elrond took her hand and led her into the sunlit Council chamber, her white features darkened at the twisted oaken staff with its cracked crystal lying unattended on the table in front of an empty chair. Radagast brushed his stringy gray hair out of his face and nodded at her unspoken question.

"He appeared at my door at Rhosgobel two winters ago. Said he was going East, to seek word of the fate of the two Blues." Radagast laid a hand on the staff. "He insisted on leaving it. Said it would be needed." Radagast scratched under his brown hat and casually wiped the bird filth from his fingers on his robe. His huge eyebrows furrowed. "Didn't say what for."

Elrond pulled out a chair for Galadriel before returning to his own seat.

"Why has no one spoken of this?" Galadriel asked as she perched lightly on the edge of the chair, silently praying to Varda that Elrond would not hear the quaver in her voice.

Elrond untied a scroll and rolled the brown parchment across the white marble tabletop. A map of Eriador unfurled before Galadriel. Elrond's long finger stabbed at a spot along the East-West Road, not far from the hill of Amon Sul.

"Strange lights have been seen in the broken towers of the old Mannish city of Minas Eriol. Harried travelers arrive in Bree bringing tales of goblin soldiers waylaying Dwarven caravans and taking the spoils back to the ruins." Elrond frowned at the stretch of road on the map between Bree and Rivendell. "The Lone Lands are quickly becoming unpassable."

"Strange lights?" Galadriel tried to focus on Elrond's words, but her mind's eye was roving East, into the lands beyond the Sea of Rhun. Only a gray mist lay there.

 _Ever the ways of your feet are hidden from me._

Elrond glanced at Radagast before continuing. "We think that Mithrandir left his staff for this purpose."

Radagast nodded. "He said they'd be back, and sooner than he wished."

"Who?"

"Minas Eriol has been regarrisoned and has a new Captain. One of Sauron's. One of the Nine." There was an impatient edge to Elrond's normally calm voice. "A Ringwraith has come home to roost in his old tower overlooking the East-West Road."

Radagast nodded. "Minas Eriol cannot become another Minas Morgul."

Galadriel cursed herself inwardly. She was behaving like a dunce. She firmly withdrew her mind from the gray fog in the East, noticed with flushing cheeks the hard, piercing look with which Elrond regarded her. Glancing around the Council chamber as if for the first time, Galadriel's gaze narrowed.

"Where is Curunir?"

Elrond walked over to the archway that looked out onto the Vale of Imladris, its hardwoods emblazoned in the full splendor of autumn, and clasped his hands behind his back. When he finally spoke, he did not turn around.

"Saruman scours the Gladden Fields for news of the One," Elrond said. This time, Galadriel did not miss the disapproval underneath Elrond's carefully chosen words. "He says he cannot be spared."

"The Rangers are not what they once were since Arathorn was slain," Elrond continued, "and Estel is still too young to command them. Gandalf is missing in the East, and Saruman pursues his own counsels. One of us must deal with this threat."

Radagast picked up Gandalf's staff and stood up. Shuffling over to Galadriel, he dropped to one knee and held up the staff in gnarled, upturned hands.

"He left it for you, my Lady."

A soft breeze from the East stirred Galadriel's golden tresses as she took the staff in her trembling hands. Then, she thought of Celeborn brooding on his throne in the mallorn tree atop Caras Galadhon, and suddenly the twisted oak felt dirty. She set it on the marble table and wiped her hands on her gown.

"I'm not a warrior."

As Elrond paced back over to the table, his shadow blocked out the afternoon sun that streamed through the valley. "No, you are something that He actually fears."

"No." Galadriel's eyes were hard as sapphires.

Elrond grabbed the staff and thrust it toward Galadriel.

"It must be you."

Radagast hastily retreated to his chair as Galadriel rose to her feet and turned toward Elrond. She raised a thin, golden eyebrow, but Elrond's gaze remained steady.

"Yours was not the only Ring taxed at Dol Guldur, _bes naneth._ "

Elrond's mention of Celebrian - of his and Galadriel's shared pain, wrung a gasp of outrage from her. But, she backed away as Elrond stepped forward. "It was all I could do that day to hold my own against them, and that was with Saruman at my side."

Elrond held up a clenched fist, and a feeble ruby light flickered on his ring finger. "The Goblins of the Misty Mountains seek retribution for the slaying of their King. They know that the wielder of Glamdring came from Rivendell. If I were to take Vilya outside the valley, Rivendell would fall ere I returned. If I returned. At least Celeborn -"

"Do not speak to me of Celeborn!"

Clouds darkened the sky as the cold, brassy alto rang out over the valley. A cold wind whipped around the Council chamber, stirring the red, yellow, and orange leaves strewn on the flagstones, swirling them around Galadriel's pale form. From within the whirlwind of brittle leaves, Galadriel spoke, and her voice was cold as the grinding ice of the Helcaraxe.

"I walked in the light of the Two Trees in Valmar, the city of the High King, long before this valley that you claim mastery of ever saw the light of sun or moon. I have learned from the lips of the Queen of Doriath herself the secrets of her enchantments. Save your counsel for those born to this age, Son of Earendil!"

Then, Galadriel blinked and gasped. The whirlwind of leaves fluttered to the ground, and she fell back against a marble pillar, her pale breast heaving. The Council Chamber was silent, save for the sound of water rushing over the parapets below.

Elrond sighed and, holding out the staff, bowed his head.

"And that – My Lady – is why _you_ must face him."


	7. Chapter 7

There came a piercing shriek - a black, cold cry of deepest midnight. Hilla covered her ears and curled up behind Anlaf on the beer soaked floorboards behind the bar. Anlaf's hands shook as he grabbed his well-used cudgel from atop a barrel of Old Winyard. He peered with bloodshot eyes over the bar toward the Fairy Lady standing before the barred door.

Galadriel's hands also shook as she laid another Elvish charm on the door with the oak staff, its white crystal flickering with a pale, phantasmal light that licked the edges of the door like a cold flame. To the terrified mortals cowering behind her, the howling shrieks were just pure, audible terror. But, her Elven ears heard the challenge floating in the discordant hiss.

"Come out, Witch! Or I will tear asunder all within for the Goblins slain by your accursed Elvish Light!"

The door bowed inward. The wood around the hinges creaked. Galadriel pushed back with the staff.

" _Hollen i lend na_!"

Her chant was answered by a frustrated hiss, and the pressure relented. The door snapped back into place. The staff's crystal dimmed as Galadriel caught her breath. After a few breaths of nothing but silence, Galadriel dared to hope. Her fingers trembled like storm swept leaves as she placed a hand on the door. She jerked her hand back as if she had touched a hot kettle.

It was still there. Only a few inches of wood separated them. A booming laugh replaced the silence, and Black Speech crawled with filthy talons through Galadriel's mind.

"Your heart flutters like a caged rabbit's."

Galadriel's eyes were hardened sapphires. "I've bested you before. And your Master."

"You don't have the gray beards or Earendil's Half-Elven bastard to protect you."

The hissing screeches seeping through the door froze Anlaf's heart. He raised his eyes again to the Fairy Lady. She was so frail, wet and trembling in her gossamer gown, hands shaking as they gripped the staff. The words she spoke were just so much more gibberish, but the musical, liquid sounds that flew from her lips in reply to the Thing outside stirred something in Anlaf's chest. His limbs warmed, and the ham fingers wound around the knotted cudgel found their strength as a desperate, furious decision burned in his brain. He stood up.

"What you doin'?" Hilla whimpered from under the bar, her eyes wide above her pallid cheeks.

Anlaf bent down and kissed the top of Hilla's head. "I love ya."

"Anlaf!"

But he was already running for the back door.

Anlaf had long ago fixed the outside door to the larder so that it only opened from the inside. Thievery was a way of life in the Lone Lands, and any of the scores of highwaymen who prowled the East-West road could tell you when the barrel laden wagons from the Southfarthing made their deliveries of Old Winyard and Longbottom Leaf. It wouldn't do to have the Forsaken Inn run low on the two things that made life bearable because someone had helped themselves to Anlaf's stock.

The larder door snicked shut behind Anlaf, and he stepped out into the cold rain. Now, there was no turning back.

Anlaf twisted the cudgel in his callused palm until the knots and bumps found a good fit. His leather boots squished in the wet grass as he loped around the backside of the Inn. When he neared the front corner of the Inn, Anlaf pressed his back up against the damp stone wall.

Anlaf held his breath and listened, but he there was only the din of the rain pounding on the cobblestone walkway. A lightning bolt ripped through the broiling storm clouds, and for a moment Weathertop stood there in the barren landscape, wearing its jagged ruins like a crown. The boom that followed the flash rumbled in Anlaf's chest, but it still wasn't as loud as his pounding heart. He swallowed hard and peered around the corner.

A black war horse champed at its bit and pawed the rain-soaked grass with an iron shod hoof. Its saddle was empty, but the reins were gripped tightly in a gray-skinned hand. Anlaf's eyes narrowed at the crude tattoo on the Goblin's bare, wiry muscled arm. One of Gurzstaz's, from the Midgewater. Anlaf swore under his breath. The Goblin Chieftain had a lot of nerve. Anlaf had given him half his last shipment of Old Winyard as protection.

A hiss filled the night air, and both Anlaf and the Goblin cringed. In the shadows of the Inn's porch, a darker shadow moved. Heavy thuds kept time with the Thing's footsteps as it paced before the front door of the Inn. The thuds stopped. A spiked, mailed fist pounded in frustration on the door.

The wood cracked.

The black-cloaked Thing paused, as if in disbelief. The Thing drew its sword and battered the door with the hilt, shrieking like a hawk that had found a rabbit away from its hole. The protective white light flickering through the gaps in the planks dimmed, betraying the weakness of the Lady on the other side of the door. The Thing pounded harder, the crack widening with every blow.

Anlaf's blood turned to ice water. Hilla was on the other side of that door. He forced himself to step out from behind the corner of the Inn. Then, his boot caught on something hard, and he stumbled.

Anlaf pawed at the wet grass. His muddy fingers slipped past the nightcrawlers squirming out of the pungent earth and closed around a stone. Anlaf gripped it tightly and shot a look toward the door of the Inn. Faery light streamed through the splintering door, illuminating the cloaked, armored Thing on the porch. It raised its heavy sword for the final blow.

Anlaf readied his cudgel and hurled the rock.

It bounced off the spiked crown with a metallic clang. The Thing whirled around. A cold hiss filled the darkness under the black hood. A mailed hand reached out.

The world shifted around Anlaf, and the landscape went black.

The Goblin tending the horse was now wreathed in a flickering red flame. From the porch, a pale green face - a man's face, long and drawn with the weariness of untold ages - gazed down at him with dull, lifeless eyes. A skeletal hand adorned with a burning ring of white gold pointed upwards. Anlaf craned his head toward the sky, and the cudgel slipped from his numb fingers.

Where the storm clouds had been, a sea of fire now raged. The broiling flames swirled around a long slit like a cat's pupil that stretched from horizon to horizon, a black crack in the universe, an Eye - all seeing, all hating.

It saw him.

Anlaf dropped to his knees like a puppet whose strings had been cut. The Ringwraith's laugh of despair was the last sound Anlaf heard as his spirit fell screaming up into the Void.


	8. Chapter 8

Galadriel winced and gripped the staff tighter in her numb fingers, pressing it harder against the creaking door. Every blow of the Nazgul's sword hilt ran up the staff and through her trembling arms and shoulders. She swallowed hard as the crack in the center of the door opened and sent jagged tendrils along the grain of the splintering wood. The Nazgul laughed.

There was a thud, and the laugh stopped abruptly. The Nazgul hissed. Suddenly, the unclean smell of death no longer assaulted Galadriel's nostrils, and she breathed in the cold, fresh air that blew through the crack. The dark sorcery that had been trying to quench Galadriel like a candle snuffer was gone, and the white light from the crystal on the end of the staff blazed brightly.

Galadriel slumped against the rough wooden wall. Every crack and splinter that riddled the door stood out starkly in the bright light, and there was a hole in the center of the door big enough for Galadriel to put her hand through.

Hilla screamed. "My Lady! It's Anlaf! He's gone and done something foolish."

Galadriel's blue eyes flickered away from the door, sparing Hilla the briefest of glances as Galadriel skimmed through the barmaid's foremost thoughts

 _I love ya._

Anlaf's last words still echoed in Hilla's mind. Hilla's gaze was fixed on the door to the pantry. Galadriel's heart sank. She spoke one word to Hilla.

"Hide."

Galadriel stood up away from the wall and took a deep breath. She turned back to the door, her face hardening. She stretched out her hand, and the door exploded.

Galadriel stepped out of the Inn, and into the spirit world.

She felt the familiar disorienting shift, and then the world was laid bare before her – a twisted landscape of shadows cast by the mortal world. There were no secrets here. The Eye burned in the sky above her, watching. Always watching.

No, there were no secrets here. The colors betrayed you, like the red fire of hate burning in the goblin next to the standing shadow that was a horse in the mortal world. She looked at her own hand gripping the wizard's staff. It glowed pale green. She was no Lady here. In this place, she was the Witch.

The Nazgul had left the porch and now stood over the shadow of a fallen mortal that lay on the black ground. The Nazgul's arm raised, and the Black Speech that Galadriel knew all too well vibrated in the air. Mortals were but shadows in this world, without faces, but Galadriel knew that the shadow the Nazgul was conjuring over could only be Anlaf.

The Nazgul turned as Galadriel descended the Inn's steps. The face under the black hood was grim, and pale, but the Man had been noble and handsome when he was alive. His face glowed the same pale green as Galadriel's, the green of insatiable lust for power.

She could not hide it now; she couldn't hide it then. There were no secrets in Valinor. Varda had been first to notice – the telltale green flicker around Galadriel's spirit body so similar to the jealous hue that tinged her uncle Feanor, the flicker that had grown with her power into the sickly green fire that now blazed around her and twisted her features whenever she used her enchantments.

Feanor had seen it in her and smiled knowingly - smiled and lusted for the power she possessed. He craved it, desired it, wanted to preserve it forever within his precious Silmarils. But Galadriel had felt shame, and then disgust at the lust within Feanor's ever burning eyes. She had spurned him.

Galadriel had fled from him, chased at first by importunities of love, then by angry threats. She had sought refuge within the Gardens of Nurnien. Feanor had left off his pursuit at the gate, not daring to venture within the private sanctuary of a Vala. It was there, as she sat on a marble bench beside a pool, watching the hypnotic circular swimming of the undying fish, that the warm, gentle hand had first touched her shoulder.

Galadriel started and rose to her feet with a hiss, expecting to confront the blazing eyes of her uncle, but instead, kind, wise eyes smiled at her above a short trimmed beard. A full head of hair flowed down over broad shoulders draped in simple gray robes.

"You are troubled, m'Lady." The voice had been the same then as now.

Galadriel folded her arms and turned back toward the pond. "A sickness eats at the heart of Valinor."

"Indeed, m'Lady, though the Great Powers remain in part blind to it. You have great insight to see what the mighty Manwe does not."

Galadriel turned back to the gray robed man. "I have never heard one of the Maiar speak thus about the King of Arda." Her eyes narrowed as she looked him over. "Especially one who looks more like a gardener than a counselor."

The man's smile shone through his bearded face and out of his bright eyes. "Olorin, m'Lady. I am a caretaker of this place – the price one pays for speaking the truth too openly to the King of Arda."

They had sat there on the bench and talked while the stars twinkled blue behind the clouds. Galadriel had returned to the garden many times, when the light of the Two Trees mingled in the evening, and Olorin always waited for her.

Then, one night a black Terror had crept on eight legs through Valinor and drunk the light from the Two Trees. There had been weeping at first, then bitter speech, and angry words by Elf, Maiar and Valar alike. The Darkness of Valinor was then broken by the orange, flickering glow of torches on the hill of Tuna. Galadriel had been caught up in the rousing speeches, the shouting voices, the lanterns, the naked blades. She had joined Feanor, not out of any love or loyalty, but out of her own boundless ambition and the promise of power to be grasped in Middle Earth. And so, she had followed Feanor on his bloody path to the Swan Havens

No – even now, after ages had passed Galadriel could not bear to think on what they had done there to her mother's kin. She had been banished, along with all the noble houses of the Noldor. There would be no return to Valinor for Galadriel. Olorin was lost to her.

When Galadriel had stepped into Middle Earth at the first rising of the moon, she found not wide open spaces but a land of jealously guarded kingdoms, plagued by orcs, wolves and dragons, always under siege from the Dark Lord in the North. Unwilling to submit herself to her uncle, Galadriel took advantage of the uneasy truce held between Feanor and the King Thingol of Doriath and attached herself as a simple lady in waiting to Queen Melian.

How she burned with jealousy that here was a Maiar that had indulged her love for an Elf! If only Olorin would come to Middle Earth, then out from under the watchful eye of Manwe perhaps, they too could at last…

But Olorin did not come, and Melian gave Galadriel what she craved – the way to power. Enchantments, the power of nature, lore older than the trees, all this Melian instructed Galadriel in, and then she was wed to one of Thingol's own kinsmen, of the royal house, who was foreordained to rule a kingdom of his own.

Galadriel was wed to Celeborn.

And she had ruled. Oh yes, Celeborn was King, but the gentle Grey Elf had always cared more for his love for Galadriel than for any throne. And, it was to Galadriel, not Celeborn, that the third Elven Ring had been given. Then, Gil-Galad fell before the gates of Mordor, and the line of High Kings in Middle Earth came to an end. No one remained that could even remotely challenge her, not even the son of Earendil. Save for perhaps the One Ring itself, all power in Middle Earth had been delivered into Galadriel's hand. All that she desired was hers.

Except Olorin.

Then, at the turning of an Age, when the five Istari had arrived at the Grey Havens and presented themselves to Galadriel, she had looked into the eyes of the Gray Wizard and seen the familiar twinkle. Olorin had finally come for her. What other reason could have brought him hence? They would have their chance. They could be like Melian and Thingol.

Were it not for Celeborn.

Celeborn, whose love for Galadriel was deeper than the Western Sea. Celeborn, who cared more for the touch of her white hand than any throne or Ring of Power. Celeborn, who had always inspired her to a kinder, gentler rule. Celeborn, the father and namesake of her only daughter –

No, that was still too painful to bear.

Pushing the memories aside, Galadriel stepped closer to the Ringwraith. Her battle with the Eye at Dol Guldur had left her spirit scarred, and now she let the Witch reveal Herself in all Her terrible glory.

 _"Stand away from the mortal,"_ she hissed in the Black Speech.

The Ringwraith stepped away from Anlaf's fallen body and, sheathing his sword, held up two empty hands.

 _"I bring you greetings from the Lord of Mordor."_

Galadriel frowned. She held Mithrandir's staff at the ready, a dozen different conjurations on the tip of her tongue.

 _"I care not for his greetings, servant of the Void. I come to purge you from these lands."_

 _"You come because my Master has arranged it."_ The Ringwraith's drawn face twisted in a triumphant smile.

Galadriel paused. Her mind raced, trying to sift the meaning from the Ringwraith's words. How was this riddle to be answered?

Mithrandir hunting rumors of the Blue Wizards in the east, Curunir hunting rumors of the One Ring in the Gladden Fields, Elrond and Radagast fortifying Rivendell against rumors of a Goblin attack, the Rangers fortifying the north as Angmar stirred. All occupied, all for one purpose. To ensure that it was Galadriel who came to answer the troubles at Minas Eriol.

Galadriel's blood froze. The Ringwraith nodded at the dawning realization on her ghastly green face. This was all about getting her alone, getting her someplace quiet, so they could talk.

Galadriel looked on in amazement as the Ringwraith drew his sword and knelt, holding it aloft in upturned hands.

 _"The Lord of Mordor sends greetings to the Witch Queen of Eriador."_

This wasn't a battle; it was a parley.


	9. Chapter 9

The Ringwraith rose to his feet and planted his heavy blade in the shadowy corpse that had been Anlaf. Galadriel hissed through her teeth. The Ringwraith stepped forward to within a pace of Galadriel's terrible Witch form.

"Think on it, Witch Queen. All the lands west of the Misty Mountains. That is a kingdom to rival even ancient Beleriand."

"Your Master is generous with lands that are not his to give."

"And you are overly noble in declining a realm that you lack the power to obtain."

An eyebrow raised above Galadriel's hard features. The wind blowing down from Weathertop had picked up again, and the strands of her black hair writhed like serpents around the points of her ears. She raised a long, green finger to the ruins on the ridge.

"Do not think that I am ignorant of the tale of the Lore-master of Minas Eriol. Your ancient city lies within the domain that your Master wishes to bequeath to me. Tell me. What was the price of your lands?"

The Ringwraith produced a white scroll from the folds of his robes, gilt with silver runes and bound with a silver cord. Galadriel's heart skipped a beat. She had not seen such a thing since Beleriand fell beneath the waves of the Western Sea.

"How did you come by that?" she hissed at the Ringwraith.

"Tell me what it says." There was a desperate hunger in the flickering eyes of the man looking out at her from under his forbidding iron crown. "I have waited an Age to hear her words."

Galadriel's gaze dropped again to the scroll. "It _is_ Melian's, then."

The Ringwraith offered the scroll in his outstretched metal gauntlet. "You were her lady-in-waiting. Let me hear the thoughts of the Queen of Doriath."

Galadriel took the scroll with trembling fingers and released the silver cord. As she unfurled the white parchment, the familiar, shimmering silver runes danced before her eyes. And, though it had been two Ages since she had read her Mistress' secret cipher, the words were still plain enough to her. As Galadriel read the scroll, her hard, green features flooded with amazement, turned to disbelief, and finally twisted into grim anger.

 _My dearest Thingol –_

 _Your kinsman Celeborn has come to me, seeking to plight his troth to one of my ladies in waiting, Galadriel. (You know her – the mannishly tall Noldorin maid that accompanies me to court whether I summon her or not)._

 _There is something that weighs heavy on the hearts of all these close mouthed Noldor, and there is more of their departure from Valinor than they reveal. As for my lady in waiting, she may refuse to reveal to me the reasons for the coming of her kin, but her reasons for coming forth I have discerned only too well._

 _Galadriel desires lands, and a great kingdom, and subjects to bend to her own will. Her desire for power rivals only that of her uncle. This union between Galadriel and your kinsman would be greatly imbalanced. Celeborn is too gentle, too kind hearted, too ready to please this Noldorin maid who bewitches your entire court with her golden tresses._

 _If you truly plan to consign a realm east of the Blue Mountains to Celeborn, as you have told me in the past, know that he would be a puppet, King only in name to a realm in the grip of the niece of Feanor._

 _Despite all this, I counsel you to marry them at once._

 _My heart tells me that Celeborn's love for Galadriel is all that restrains her, that she puts aside her fierce desire for power only so that she can be in truth the pure, noble Lady that your kinsman has fallen in love with. Disallow the union, and none of Beleriand will be safe from her ambition._

 _Daily she hounds me, seeking to drain the well of my enchantments, and though I give her power enough to keep the Shadow at bay in whatever lands that will one day lay under her dominion, I suspect she will never truly be satisfied until she holds the keys to Angband itself._

 _Marry them, my King, and then send them away._

 _~ Tinuviel_

Galadriel's face could have been etched from pure jade as her long fingers slowly furled the scroll, then crushed it in her fist. The Ringwraith hissed in anger, its mailed gauntlet wrapping around the hilt of the sword still sheathed in Anlaf's shadow.

"Tell me, Witch! What does it say?"

A whimpering sob broke upon Galadriel's spectral hearing, and she glanced toward the Inn. The walls no longer any barrier to her sight, the shadow of Hilla was plain to her as she lay curled on the floor behind the bar. Hilla's sorrow seemed so distant - the faceless, cowering form a curiosity more than anything else. They were not real in this world – mortals. You didn't have to see their faces as you ground them under your feet.

Cold, wet, heavy drops of rain began to fall from the storm clouds that had rent themselves to tatters on Weathertop's jagged peak. Galadriel looked down into the puddle by her muddy feet, and the Witch looked back up at her.

What would Melian think of her now?

"Stop gawking, Witch, and speak!" The Ringwraith raised the tip of his sword toward Galadriel.

Galadriel raised an eyebrow at the spectral Man and held up the scroll.

The scroll burst into blinding white flames, the silver runes dissolving into sparks that shot out in fiery arcs before landing with a hiss into the puddles that dotted the ground. Galadriel turned over her hand, letting the last ashen remnants of the scroll fall like snow at her feet.

" _Elf bitch!_ "

The Ringwraith's howl elicited pitiful shrieks from Hilla inside the Inn, as well as from the Goblin tending the wraith's mount. The Man within the Ringwraith's black hood turned a desolate glare toward Galadriel, and the words that came from his gaunt lips were of the ancient Mannish tongue.

"I had spent centuries on that scroll, had studied the flow and curve of every letter until I had fallen in love with her. To never know what she had written -"

The Nazgul screamed in rage. The greatsword that descended toward Galadriel's willowy form might have been an axe swung at a tender birch sapling. Galadriel met the blow with Gandalf's staff. The sword shattered on the glowing oak.

Truth was, Galadriel had been holding back at Dol Guldur. Afraid of what Elrond and Saruman might do to her in her weakened state if the Witch were fully revealed before Her time, Galadriel had relied solely on the white magic within her Ring and her Phial, giving the White Council only a glimpse of the dark Power she had acquired over the Ages.

Now, with no one to look on and make dangerous decisions, Galadriel gave the Witch free rein. She raised a glowing green hand toward the stunned Ringwraith. A cruel smile twisted her lips.

" _Then love her, and despair_."

The Ringwraith burst into crimson flames within his robes. As the Nazgul fell screaming to his knees before her, Galadriel reached out and pulled the iron crown from his head.

" _I could have had these lands the day Gil-Galad fell before the gates of Mordor._ _I take whatever crown I please. Think on that while you squirm under your Master's Eye with no form to clothe your naked spirit_."

The Ringwraith screeched once more, then crumbled into a flaming, shapeless heap at Galadriel's feet.

She stood there for a moment, triumphant. Never had she tarried in the spirit world so long. Never had the Witch been given such free rein.

She loved it.

She could feel everything. See everything. The red light of Mount Doom in the south. The fires in the rekindled forges of Angmar's amories in the north. The pale, weak flickering of Elrond's Ring Vilya in Rivendell to the east. And to the west, something –

She hissed and turned, her mind's eye searching, past Bree toward a green land of rolling hills…

It was gone. Shrouded in a sea of impenetrable mist. A familiar mist.

Gandalf.

A harsh, wicked laugh mocked Galadriel's frustration. She turned her hard gaze toward the sky, where the Eye still watched.

"Now you know what the Graybeard uses his Ring for, Elf Witch. So, he hides the One from you as well."

Galadriel shook her head in disbelief. "No. He can't know where It is. He would not deceive me."

"He saw you, that day at Dol Guldur. Just a glimpse. But it was enough. He won't risk meeting you again, O searcher of hearts, until he has shown It openly before Elves and Men."

The cold, mocking words rang true. The green light in Galadriel's eyes dimmed, and for a moment the weight of countless years seemed to press down on her.

"Begone," she muttered to the Eye. "Or do I have to speak the banishing again? For all your taunts, I am the only one here with a Ring."

"And what will you do when yours fails? Go back into the West, if they will have you? He will not follow – the Grey Elf. When the Sundering comes, he and your grandchildren will forsake you for Middle-Earth. And in the West, you are not Valar, not Maiar, not even High Elf. Just a minor noble of a shamed, exiled house. What will you do, when you are just one small light alone among so many brighter stars?"

Galadriel looked down into the pool. The Witch looked back up at her. A half-forgotten memory stirred within Galadriel, and she tossed the Ringwraith's iron crown into the water. The Witch shattered, and when the water stilled, it was Galadriel who gazed back up at her.

"Then I will walk by the pools of Nurnien once again, and be just Galadriel. And he will be just Olorin. And I will not be alone."

Galadriel raised her Ring threateningly to the sky. "I reject your terms, Servant of Morgoth."

The Eye winked out. Galadriel was wrenched back into the mortal world.

She dropped the staff and stumbled backward before falling onto the rain-soaked ground. The colors of life flooded her eyes. The wet grass that she lay on was emerald green, the predawn sky over Weathertop was a pinkish hue, and the skin on her trembling hands was pale white.

The Lady Galadriel, Queen of the Golden Wood and Bearer of a Ring of Power, turned over in the muck outside the Forsaken Inn and retched into a mud puddle.

Behind her, the door to the Inn banged open.

"Anlaf!"

Galadriel's eyes closed in sorrow at Hilla's scream. The hurried steps splashing through the puddles on the lawn, followed by Hilla's soft, sorrowful moans told Galadriel all that she needed to know.

Her eyes did, however, snap open at a deeper, rougher groan not far away. Leaving the staff where it lay, Galadriel staggered to her feet and turned.

The Goblin, looking just as shaken as the others, was also struggling to stand. Galadriel doubted she had the strength remaining for even one more Goblin, but the yellow eyes in the gray-skinned, pointy eared face had no fight in them.

The reins slipped out of the gray, black-clawed fingers as the Ringwraith's horse went to graze about on the lawn.

Galadriel raised her Ring hand and pointed a shaky finger at the Goblin. "T-tell your Chieftain that this Inn and the lands between here and Weathertop are forbidden." She paused to take a shaky breath. "If any of these folk come to harm, the Goblins of the Midgewater will answer for it."

The Goblin nodded without argument.

"I hear, White Witch." It turned and staggered toward the marshlands behind the Inn.

A fresh cry broke out of Hilla. Galadriel stumbled over and knelt beside Hilla next to Anlaf's crumpled form.

"I am alone!" Hilla buried her face in her apron.

Galadriel wrapped her arm around Hilla and cradled the woman's head on her shoulder, rocking her back and forth.

"No, Hilla. You are not alone. You will return to the Golden Wood with me." Galadriel cast a pained eye at the staff lying on the ground a few paces away, Sauron's insightful mockery echoing in her elegant ears. "And I promise you by Varda's stars that neither of us will leave Caras Galadhon again until the end of the Age."

###

"My Lady, did you hear me?"

The only reply was the Silverlode murmuring in its banks somewhere beyond the hedge. The Elf maid bit her lip and fidgeted at the arched entrance to the grove.

Finally, the golden-haired head turned away from the rustic stone image of the mortal woman – the one that had served as the Queen's lady-in-waiting until the Gift of Illuvatar had been finally been granted to the aged woman last spring.

Galadriel rose to her feet and brushed the golden _mallorn_ leaves from her white gown. She dabbed at her eyes with a flowing sleeve before turning and raising an inquiring golden eyebrow to the Elf maid.

The girl lowered her gaze and twisted the golden cord of her robe in shaky fingers.

"M'Lady, as I said, Haldir has returned from the border with a strange company of travelers who met with some misfortune in Moria. They claim to know Elrond of Rivendell. The Lord Celeborn greatly desires your counsel."

Galadriel said nothing, but the Elf maid saw an unsettling look in her Mistress' face, one she had not seen in many years. The ivory-skinned face hardened, and a fire rekindled behind the bright, blue eyes. The elegant ears tilted, as if listening to half-remembered words.

 _He will fall, and It will come to you. And what will you do then?_


End file.
